


Stamina

by pathogenicagent



Category: Xiaolin Showdown
Genre: M/M, chase isn't evil but he's not very nice either, figure skating AU, hannibal's extra not nice, i was going to tag it as 'underage' but nothing happens when jack is underage, slowburn, this isn't actually inspired by yuri on ice i swear
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-03
Updated: 2019-04-11
Packaged: 2020-01-01 12:22:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18334463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pathogenicagent/pseuds/pathogenicagent
Summary: Chase Young, a renowned figure skater, meets newcomer Jack Spicer while training for his next competition. After encouraging Spicer to pursue the sport (which he was forced to partake in), they part ways with little faith that they'd cross paths again. Faith had it so they would.(I'll change the summary later, probably - this fic will span 8 or so years, because I'm a fool)





	1. Time is of the Essence

It was when Hannibal left to run an ‘errand,’ that Chase found the opportunity to take a break. Perhaps he was foolish in hoping that his coach would relent after Chase had won gold two weeks prior - at the  _Olympics_ , no less. 

Rather than being given praise for once, Hannibal scolded him over a minor stumble he had during his performance. It wasn’t even addressed by the judges, but Hannibal didn't only notice it, he played the clip for him continuously until the mistake was burned into Chase’s memory. His penalty was to spend two hours extra on the ice every day, practicing moves that he already perfected. 

Chase removed his skates and drank what was left of his water. As he took a seat, a group of children took his place on the ice for their lessons. Some refused to let go of the edge of the rink, and those who chose not to rely on it for balance slowly but surely made their way to the center. It had been so long since he was a beginner that he scarcely remembered feeling so apprehensive.

Three teenagers and a slightly younger boy - who were very clearly more experienced - made their way towards the group, along with what Chase assumed to be their instructor. Soon their voices were drowned out by  _Clair de Lune_. 

Unsure what to do with himself, he ventured closer, protein bar in hand, and watched as they practiced. One of the teenagers - a petite Asian girl with pigtails - demonstrated how to do a forward crossover. 

“Ughh, _great!_ Those idiots are here?!” 

The voice was loud enough to make Chase jolt. About ten feet to his right stood a boy and presumably his mother, who was giving him a sour look.

“Jack, please don’t antagonize them.” 

“But what if  _they_  antagonize  _me_?!” 

“You’ll have to ignore them, dear. I’m not about to inconvenience Missus Cornhaven by changing locations now.” The woman rubbed her temples.

“I don’t even  _want_  to skate. This was  ** _your_**  idea.”  _Jack_  crossed his arms, and honest to god  _pouted_. How old was he? Certainly older than twelve, but definitely not eighteen. He wondered if he’d tear up if he continued to not get his way.

“We’ve already had this discussion, and I have to go to my meeting.” She kissed him on the cheek before climbing up the stairs, heels rough against the concrete. “I’ll be back after five, try to have fun!” 

The boy groaned, raking his gloved hands through his hair. What a peculiar shade of red. He must've dyed it, it was too unnatural otherwise. Much of Jack’s appearance stuck out from everyone else present. His piercings were all the more apparent as the light struck them. Three in each ear, at least. Then there was one in his nostril. He wore eyeliner, which was unusual, though not unflattering. His outfit was the least conspicuous - all black, overall appropriate skating attire. 

“What are  _you_  looking at?" Jack snapped. Chase huffed at his tone, but couldn't be too irritated with him. He probably made himself look like a creep, staring at the boy like he was.

“Forgive me. Your bickering was quite loud.” 

“It wasn’t  _bickering_.” 

“Really. Would you like me to pull up the definition?” 

“I’ll pass.” Jack walked towards him rather than away, for whatever reason. He pointed at the bar in Chase’s hand. “Hey, do you have any with chocolate?” 

“..Yes.” 

“Can I have one? I forgot to eat before I left home.” 

Chase sighed, fishing another protein bar out of his bag and handed it over. Doing so would produce a better result than the alternative - having Jack fall on his ass later due to hunger-induced vertigo, and most likely cause him to whine more. 

“Thanks.” 

“Mhm.” 

Jack unwrapped the protein bar, took a bite, and sat next to him. Was this boy not taught to avoid interacting with strangers? It was bad enough that he took food from one. 

“So ma mam wanned do be - “

“Stop. Swallow what’s in your mouth first.” 

Why was he even encouraging him to keep going? Was he truly this starved for casual human interaction?

He half expected Jack to defy him, but amazingly he did as he was told, then continued.

“My mom wanted to be a professional figure skater, but never went through with it. Now I think she’s pushing her dream onto me. It's bogus.” 

Ah, he was going to be vented to. 

“Well, it won’t kill you to try.” Most likely. “You might like it.” 

“Yeah, right. Can’t play the music I want, can’t wear what I want, and it’s fucking cold. No thanks.” Jack rubbed his arms, as if to emphasize his discomfort.

He supposed that it was an aggravating hindrance, to stick to the rigid rules of figure skating. Chase adjusted to them long ago, and had gained a significant amount of success as a result. It took years of blending in for him to finally stand out. Judging by this interaction alone, Chase doubted that Jack was patient enough to get that far even if he wanted to.

While he had half a mind to tell him to stop acting like a sniveling brat, he found himself wanting to  _convince_  him to pursue the sport instead. He was already stuck at the rink, after all. 

“It’s not as limiting as you presume. Yes, you’ll have to accommodate, but it’s unlikely that you won’t find  _anything_  you like. As for the cold - you’ll warm up.” He only had chills due to sweat and the sudden halt in motion. Thinking of it, he longed for a shower. 

“Did you choose this, or did your parents force it on you?” 

Chase opened his mouth, then closed it again. He didn’t want to speak of his parents. Especially to a seemingly spoiled teenager he’s never met before. It really wasn’t his business.

However, it wasn’t probable that he’d ever see this boy again, and he clearly had no idea who Chase was. He didn't need to go into details. What harm could it possibly do?

“..Both, I suppose. My family has done it for generations. Once I showed a talent for it, my parents encouraged me to start a career. It was ultimately my choice to make.” 

He didn’t half-ass it, either. Had his parents been alive, they would’ve been thrilled to know of his achievements. Although, if they were, he surely wouldn’t have met Hannibal – whether he liked it or not (and he most certainly _didn’t_ like it), his coach pushed him to where he was. Literally and figuratively.

“Oh. I take it you made the right choice then?” Jack looked at him like he was genuinely curious, and not just seeking an answer from Chase that would sway him against skating.

“Yes, I believe so.”

Jack nodded, then looked down at the skates he at some point carelessly threw onto the floor. Chase noticed that his irises were red. Contacts, maybe? They couldn’t be any more natural than his hair – no part of the boy’s appearance seemed to be.

“I.. guess I’ll give it a shot. Like, a week, tops. It’s no knife throwing class, but I wouldn’t have met you if I went there instead.” Jack was looking at him again, his expression a little more difficult to read now. Chase raised a brow at him, not knowing what to make of what he said. 

“Well. I’d suggest more than a week, but I suppose that would be too high of an expectation.” He hoped that Jack didn’t decide to because he thought Chase would be there through the duration of that week. He had a competition half way across the country the following day. They rarely stayed in one place for long. In fact, he didn't see them coming back to this city any time soon. 

“If it helps any, you’ll still be working with blades. Just not how you originally wanted to.” Chase added.

“That’s true.” Jack smiled at that, and Chase found himself smiling as well, merely because it didn’t surprise him any that Jack lit up at the mention of blades. He wasn't about to tell him that he knew a thing or two about sword fighting. 

His phone buzzed from inside his bag. Certain that it was Hannibal, he quickly retrieved it and read the message on the screen, careful not to open it and alert his coach that it was seen.

‘ _got another sponsor, we leave to meet in an hour. you better be on that ice when i get there_ ’

Chase hissed. No lengthy shower. No catnap. Only more rushing, more pleasing, and then back to work straight after. He needed to rest. 

Knowing what would happen if Hannibal caught him sitting in the stands, he got to his feet.

“What’s wrong?” Jack stood up, too. 

“My coach. I need to get back out there. It was.. interesting talking to you.” He began to walk away with his skates in hand, growing more antsy at the thought of his coach somehow possibly knowing that he hadn’t been practicing since he left. A hand caught his wrist before he made it very far, causing him to jump. He knew it wasn’t Hannibal before he turned around – the grip wasn’t nearly as tight.

“Sorry!” Jack let go instantly. Chase scowled.

“What is it.” The clock was ticking. He shouldn’t be giving Jack any more of his time.

“I was just wondering.. if.. uh..”

“Out with it.”

“Can I have your number?”

Wait. What? Chase studied Jack’s face for any sign that he was joking, and found none.

“..Why?”

“I just think you’re kind of cu- _cool_.” A very visible blush appeared on his pale skin. Chase felt his own cheeks burn. He had been asked that question many times in his life, but never by someone so much younger than he was. 

“I’m also twenty.”

“So? It’s not weird unless you make it weird. Maybe I just want to hang out – “

“No.”

Even if he hadn’t intended it to be romantic in nature (and judging by that slip Jack almost made, it definitely _was_ ), and even if he were closer to Chase’s age, he didn’t ‘hang out.’ There was simply no room for that in his life.

“Okay. Well, can’t knock a guy for trying.” Jack’s disappointment was evident, though he tried hiding it with a smirk. “Can I at least know your name?”

Oh, they hadn’t properly done that, have they? He only heard Jack’s name because he was eavesdropping, and he was so used to people knowing who he was that he stopped thinking it was all that necessary to introduce himself.

Chase held out a hand, which Jack took eagerly.

“Chase Young. Pleased to meet you.”

“Jack Spicer, _very_ pleased to meet you.” He winked. Chase sighed.

They already shook, but Jack still kept his hand firmly in his grasp. 

“You can let go of my hand now, Jack Spicer.”

“Oh, right. Sorry.” Once he released his hand, Chase fully came back to his senses. Hannibal would be there any minute. He gave Jack a hasty goodbye before turning his back to him, quickly securing his skates and making his way over to a vacant spot in the rink. 

He only managed two toe loops and a Salchow when he heard a familiar voice shout, “that was _pitiful!_ ”

Damn, he really cut it close. Reluctantly, he strode over to Hannibal. His stupid hat was crooked. Chase wanted to rip it off his head. Or just rip off his head with it on. 

“Do the Salchow again.”

“Don’t we have to get ready?”

“I _am_ ready. If you don’t wanna to meet your sponsor reekin’ of sweat I suggest you get it right this time.” Hannibal gave him a glare – one that he’s learned meant, ‘don’t argue or I’ll make the rest of your night hell.’

Jackass.

He did several in a row, not giving Hannibal the chance to stop him and nitpick every single one like he was prone to. Chase was sure that there was nothing wrong with the first Salchow. He'd swear on his father's grave, even, if that meant anything. The truth, ultimately, didn't matter. He'd only drive himself insane trying to reason with him. 

Chase must’ve met his coach’s approval, because he was being beckoned without another word. He rushed to put everything back in his bag, then followed Hannibal up the stairs.

“Hey Chase! That was awesome!” Jack said as they passed by him. He was now accompanied by an older woman, who scolded him for not focusing on his stretching. Chase could only offer him a smile in thanks - and a little sympathy - before Hannibal gripped his arm so he’d walk faster.

“No time for fanboys.” His coach muttered. Chase huffed.

“Yo, Spicer, do you know who that was?” He heard a boy – one of the teenagers, judging by the sound of his voice – ask from below. The doors shut behind him and his coach before he caught Jack’s response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This video (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=23EfsN7vEOA&t=3s) is sort of the style / tone I imagined with Chase's skating. It's basically martial arts on ice. I have videos picked out for most of the characters that I'll probably add as the story moves forward.


	2. When It Stops

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In short, Chase has had enough of Hannibal's crap. 
> 
> (Warning: there's abuse in this - both physical and mental. Also some homophobia, and some detail about bone injuries. Also I'm so sorry this is so long).
> 
> Not a lot of Jack in this, sorry. But you get Wuya for now.

Chase and Hannibal faced the television as they ate their late dinner. The channel was set on a repeat of a competition he did a week ago, and they already watched part of it when it first aired. Hannibal pressed that it was worth going over again. The volume was almost intolerably loud – he was surprised that they’ve yet to receive a knock on the door from any of the hotel staff, or an irate neighbor.

_“Chase Young ranks first in the men’s free skate, with Andrei Orlov in second, and Maxim Cazal in third. I can’t say I’m too surprised with these results – Young’s winning streak hasn’t been scathed at all.”_

_“He sets the bar high, that’s for sure,”_ another reporter chimed in. _“Look how calm he is while waiting for the judges.”_ They switched to a clip of him sitting beside his coach. Chase stared down at his plate, appetite dwindling.

_“He handles pressure extraordinarily well, if he feels it at all.”_

What he really excelled at, it seemed, was putting on a good face. A half an hour before he was meant to skate, he was retching in a bathroom stall with Hannibal telling him not to get caught looking so pathetic before leaving him there.

 _“His coach should be proud – “_ Her voice was cut off when Hannibal changed the channel.

“Judges are soft these days,” he said, toothpick tangling from the corner of his mouth. “That Lutz was nothin’ praise-worthy. You can do better than that.”

He said all of this already. In the time between then and now, Chase still couldn’t spot the problem.

“I don’t see how.”

Hannibal turned to him. For a moment, he thought he was about to get backhanded, or shoved out of his chair like he was a couple nights prior. Instead, the older man smirked.

“ _You’re_ not the coach, are ya?”

Anyone else would’ve thought it was a rhetorical question. Hannibal always wanted an answer, despite knowing it 9 times out of 10.

“No - ”

“ _’No_.’ Exactly. And how long have I been in this business, son?”

“A long, long, **_long_** time.” Chase glanced at the door, hoping for anything to interrupt. Nothing did.

“So you best not be questionin’ me. I got you this far. Eat your food.” Hannibal pointed at his plate with his fork. Chase used his own to stab a piece of chicken and shove it into his mouth. He wasn’t a child anymore, but Hannibal had an uncanny ability to make him feel like one.

From the hallway, he heard a group of people pass by, chatting among themselves. The hotel was primarily occupied by other skaters. He imagined some of them were close, and competitions like this were treated like some sort of reunion. He wouldn’t personally know – it wasn’t like he was often around anyone other than Hannibal.

It was getting old.

“Were you expecting me to go to the gym tonight?” Chase asked. Hannibal gave him a look of suspicion. One bushy brow raised.

“Naturally. Why, got somewhere better to be?”

That would be just about _anywhere_.

“I want to go out, for once.”

Hannibal snorted. “With _who?_ You’ve got no friends.”

Chase’s face burned, but he willed his features to remain still. A part of him thought to just drop the whole thing and carry on as usual.

Another part of him thought, louder: _enough is enough_.

“If you let me focus on anything other than skating, I probably would.”

That made Hannibal roar with laughter. As expected, Chase was just wasting his breath. He stood up and walked towards the window before he let his anger get the better of him. From their room, he could see the arena, brightly lit and bustling. Beyond that, the silhouette of the Cascades. He, quite frankly, would rather be on the mountain top freezing to death.

“Oh come now, Chase, think critically! Who out there is gonna be a genuine friend to you? You’re a big name – big talent. They’ll exploit you for all it’s worth. I’m just savin’ you the heartache!”

His mind went to Jack Spicer, the first person in _years_ to hold an actual conversation with him without knowing who he was first. He didn’t realize how utterly refreshing that was until he left. Hell, even when he asked for his number, it had nothing to do with Chase’s status.

That was nearly a month ago. He wondered if the boy kept up skating or threw in the towel.

“Givin’ me the silent treatment?”

“No, I’m _thinking_ ,” Chase snapped. “Can I at least do _that_ without your expressed permission?”

He closed the curtains, finding it unnecessary to taunt himself with the scenery.

“Here’s somethin’ you can do. Go fetch some ice.” Hannibal roughly set an empty ice bucket on the coffee table. Chase was about to retort that he wasn’t his errand boy, but decided to take the opportunity to get out.

“Also, it’s time to get that damn hair cut again, you’re startin’ to look like a woman!” Chase gritted his teeth, letting the door slam shut behind him.

Unfortunately, the ice machine was only down the hall. Each step he took was slower than the last, prolonging his time away however he could. Maybe he should turn around and head for the stairwell instead, and keep his 6 years with Hannibal from becoming 7.

It certainly wasn’t the first time he considered it, but there was a reason he never followed it through. Doing so would uproot his entire life. Hannibal had been managing everything since he was _15_ – where he competed, how much was spent on what, who got to speak to him and who was forbidden. Chase got to pick his routines, but even those were micromanaged.

There was no home to go back to. Everyone in China he cared about was either dead or gone. All he had was a storage locker in Manhattan – which was currently at the other end of the country.

He was stuck.

Once he made it to the ice machine, he placed the bucket on top and leaned against the wall. He wasn’t alone – a woman stood in front of the vending machine across the room, cursing under her breath.

“This blasted thing,” she hissed, hitting the side of it with her fist. He considered going over to help, but her bag of chips fell into the slot after the last punch. She turned to leave, then stopped, eyes meeting his.

“Why, if it isn’t _Chase Young_.” She smiled, flipping strands of her red hair behind her shoulder. He recognized her – Wuya Tang. Two-time silver medalist. “And here I was starting to think I’d never see you off the ice.”

“You and me both.”

Wuya walked over to him until they were only a couple of feet apart.

“And what are your plans, this evening?”

“Training.” He said, not bothering to mask the dread in his voice. She tsked.

“Take a break. Come have a drink with me.”

Chase instinctively glanced down the hall, preparing himself for a lurking Hannibal. He was nowhere to be seen, but that didn’t make him feel any less uneasy.

“I shouldn’t.”

Wuya rolled her eyes and put a hand on her hip.

“Is it because _you_ don’t want to, or because Hannibal the Cannibal would disapprove?” She paused, but not long enough to give him time to answer. “Come on, you can have _water_. Just. Sit with me for awhile. Once won’t kill you.”

It might, though he didn’t say as much. Really, it seemed like a lose-lose situation. He could go, and face whatever Hannibal had in store for him afterward. Or, he could return to the hotel room, missing a chance to truly do something different.

Fuck it.

“Fine.”

Wuya didn’t hesitate, grabbing his hand and leading him towards the elevator. He pulled away as the doors slid shut.

It took them to the first floor. Wuya didn’t reach for his hand a second time, instead ushering him towards a dimly lit bar. There were plenty of other skaters there as well, and he could feel their eyes on them both. Their chatter turned to whispers.

“What do you want?” Wuya asked. “I’m getting a raspberry daiquiri.”

“I don’t have my I.D.” Not that it would’ve mattered if he did, he wasn’t of legal age. 

“You won’t need it, I’m buying.”

He didn’t even know what to get. The last time he drank anything alcoholic was with his brother, after they made off with a bottle of baijiu when they were younger. It was disgusting.

“Just.. whatever you said you were having.” He retreated to a booth in the far corner, as out of sight as he could possibly get. She soon joined him with deep red drinks in hand. Chase stared at his.

“I didn’t spike your drink, so you can stop eyeballing it like that.” She took a sip of her own, and he slowly followed suit, surprisingly not hating the taste.

“Alright Young, start talking. Tell me about yourself.” As she scooted closer to him, he inched a little further away. “I won’t tell a soul. Your secrets are safe with me.”

“There’s not much to tell,” he shrugged. “My life isn’t that interesting. Sorry to disappoint.”

“No interests? Besides _skating_ , I mean. What kind of movies do you like?”

“Old ones.” Chase said plainly. He picked up most of his English from black-and-white films, preferring their dialect to Hannibal’s southern drawl. “What about you?”

“Period pieces. Action. A bit of horror, if done right. How about siblings – got any?”

“I had a brother.” Who he didn’t want to talk about. Her smile faltered, for a moment.

“Ah. I see. I have four younger sisters, back home.” She put her finger on her red lips, like she was thinking. “Are you in the States by yourself?”

“..Technically no, there’s – “

“Hannibal. You two are a strange match. A lot of people think so. Your styles don’t seem to.. mesh, do they? Somehow it’s been working out, though. Or else he still wouldn’t be your coach, right?”

“..Right.” It sounded _simple_ , how she put it. That if things went sour, all he had to do was fire Hannibal and get a new coach. It **_should’ve_** been that simple – but he ingrained himself in Chase’s life long ago. He was practically his guardian. “..Can we _not_ discuss Hannibal?”

“Of course,” she finished off her drink. “So, are you seeing anyone?”

Oh, there it was. He hoped she was only asking out of curiosity, but the look she was giving him suggested otherwise.

“No. I don’t want to be, either.”

Suddenly, he had more personal space again. Wuya rested her cheek on his hand, eyes staying fixed on him. She didn’t appear wounded – rather, like she was searching for something. Studying him.

“Interesting.” She hummed.

“How so?”  

“Normally, men jump at the chance to be with me – I’m rarely turned down, honey.” Chase snorted. “So, I’m trying to sort out why that’s the case now.”

He considered leaving before she shared her theories with him, but he didn’t get the chance to act on that decision. Someone else joined them in the booth.

“Hello, Miss Tang. _Chase_.”  Hannibal gave him a toothy grin. Fuck. “Fancy seein’ you here. I sent you to get ice about thirty minutes ago.”

“I talked him into it,” Wuya said. “Hannibal Roy Bean, what an honor.”

“The honor’s all mine. I’d love to stay and get further acquainted, but Chase and I have other matters to attend to. I’m sure you understand.” He stood up, expecting Chase to follow. He drank what was left in his glass first. He’d need it.

“..Of course I do,” she replied, the tone in her voice suddenly several degrees colder. “Chase. I’m in room two-forty. Just so you know.”

Hannibal snickered. “Oh darlin’, if you’re lookin’ for a lay, you’ll be mighty disappointed. Chase here has a _type_ , and you ain’t it.”

Oh my god. He had to find a way to kill this man.

“Let’s just go.” This time, he was the one yanking Hannibal away. His coach permitted it until they were out of sight of the bar patrons. Then, he got a punch on the shoulder.

“You sure are stupid, boy.” He growled, gripping Chase’s arm until they were in the elevator. His face was the next place to be hit, once the doors shielded them from anyone who could witness it. He fell back against the steel wall, raising his arms to prevent further blows.

“Yeah, hit my fucking face, explain that away when I’m in front of thousands of people!” It was definitely going to bruise, right under his left eye. Normally Hannibal avoided the face, for that reason.

“That’s what makeup’s for – you’re lookin’ more like a fairy all the time, you might as well slap on some mascara while you’re at it! What the hell were you doin’ with _Wuya Tang_? We _both_ know why that wouldn’t have worked out.”

“You’re such a moron,” there were several things to dispute, but it wouldn’t have made any difference. “Who I engage with is none of your fucking concern, I’m an _adult_.”

A hand reached for his hair, but Chase managed to block it.

“You think you know better than I do? Fine, let _whoever_ waltz into your life, let them sabotage you – _use_ you.”

“Clearly, I already have.”

The soft music overhead wasn’t enough to fill the silence. It wasn’t until they passed the 3rd floor that Hannibal spoke, gaze burning. 

“..I made you what you are. I made you a winner.”

“You cursed me.” Chase spat.

The elevator dinged, and the doors opened. A couple was waiting outside, visibly startled.

“Pardon us,” Hannibal said, smiling politely. Chase said nothing, following despite knowing they were far from finished. Even if his coach was willing to let things cool, Chase no longer thought _he_ could.

Chase scanned the room for his belongings when he entered, prepared to grab what he could and leave if he had to. They weren’t next to his bed, where he last set them.

“Where the hell is my stuff, Hannibal?”

“Why? You shouldn’t be goin’ anywhere else, Chase. Obviously you’re tired and actin' like a fool because of it. You ought to rest.”

“ ** _No_** , where did you put my stuff?” Chase opened the closet, finding nothing. He opened the bathroom door – nothing, not even his toothbrush. He went to go look behind the armchair in the corner, but Hannibal forced him back before he made it that far.

“You’re so fuckin’ ungrateful. Know why I’m so hard on you!? That damn ego of yours, poppin’ up now and again. It needs to be kept in fuckin’ check.” His nails dug into his arm. Chase used his free one to pry Hannibal’s hand off. “Without me you wouldn’t have shit to boast about. Without me you’d be _nothing!_ ”

 _Ego_ – hell. Now he knew for sure that most of those ‘flaws’ Hannibal harped about were never there to begin with. He was looking for something, _anything_ , to keep Chase from being proud of his own success. Keeping him small, easier to manage.

He was plenty skilled prior to Hannibal forcing himself into Chase’s life. He’d definitely still be with him gone. He didn’t _need_ him, and even if he did, it was no longer worth _this_.

“You’ve got it backwards. Without _me_ , _you’d_ be nothing. You’re a has-been, Hannibal. A _leach_. I’ve surpassed you, and you can’t _stand_ it.”

A fist collided with his jaw. Chase staggered back, hitting the bed.

“If I go, you’ll be finished! Kiss your career goodbye, because skatin’ alone won’t be enough!”

“I don’t _care_ anymore! I want nothing more to do with you!”

Before Hannibal could land another strike, Chase shoved him against the desk, hands reaching for the man’s neck. He didn’t care about the consequences, all he wanted was to see his face turn fucking blue.

“Help! He’s fuckin’ crazy!”

Chase stalled – it only took a second for Hannibal to use it to his advantage. Next thing he knew, he was on the floor with a boot on his chest, and Hannibal standing above him holding the desk chair. He swung it down on his leg, _hard_ , causing Chase to cry out.

“Dammit!” Hannibal moved too swiftly for Chase’s eyes to follow. He heard Hannibal grab his bag, stomp past him, and out the door.

With a hiss, Chase made himself sit upright so he could grab the edge of the desk. He pushed himself up with his unharmed leg. Tears started to well. He had his fair share of injuries - with or without Hannibal's help -  but very few have been as agonizing. He very well could’ve fractured his leg.

The bastard was probably counting on it.

He reached for the phone, finger hovering over 9.

Why was he hesitating? The authorities are the first people he should contact. Yet, he didn’t want to involve them. That would spark an investigation, and investigations took up time. Investigations caused _scandals_. Unwanted attention. 

He was meant to skate in a few days.

Fuck.

Chase dialed the front desk. His voice was shaking when he spoke.

“..Connect me to room two-forty.”

“Name please?”

“Chase Young.”

It took a couple of rings for Wuya to pick up. Chase inhaled sharply.

“Yes?”

“..It’s Chase. Come to four-thirteen.”

“What’s going on?”

“Just get up here. _Please_.” He hung up.

A few people were knocking on the door, asking if everything was okay. Through gritted teeth he kept reassuring every stranger who came to the door that he was fine. In 5 minutes, Wuya announced that she was there, and it felt like it required another 5 minutes to open the door for her. She took in the image of him, leaning against the wall.

“What the hell happened?” Wuya led him to the nearest bed, pushing him to sit.

“I fired Hannibal.” He wiped a tear from his cheek. He’d be more embarrassed if he wasn’t preoccupied by the ache.

“I take it he didn’t handle it very well?”

“ _Wuya!_ ”

“Okay, okay,” she pulled up his pant leg and winced. He looked down to see that his skin was turning deep red. “I don’t think it’s broken, but you’re going to the hospital anyway. I’ll be right back.”

As much as he loathed the thought, Chase didn’t protest. She returned with a woman – her coach, Lila, Wuya said – and together they helped him out of the hotel and into their vehicle. The ride felt like it dragged on for ages. Once they arrived he was briefly examined, then given an MRI.

Nothing was broken. However, he had little time to be relieved.

“Your tibia is bruised,” the doctor said as he handed Chase an icepack. “You’ll need to keep that leg rested, and ice it repeatedly throughout the day.”

“I don’t suppose it’s possible for it to heal in two days.”

He smiled and shook his head. “No.”

The doctor prescribed a painkiller before sending him on his way. Chase hobbled out of the hospital in a splint. The drive back was silent, as was their walk to his room. He declined Wuya’s offer to stay in hers.

“Do you think he’ll come back?” She asked, going over to help him get on the bed, only to be shrugged off. She huffed and stood back.

“I doubt it. Too much of a risk.”

“And you still don’t think you should call the police.”

“No.” Wuya sighed, then walked over to the desk, jotting something down. She brought a piece of paper back to him, stating it was her cell number, then turned to leave.

“Wuya.” Chase called, voice strained.

“Hm?”

“..Thank you.”

“Of course.” The door shut. He waited a few moments to make his way back to double lock it, in case his former coach _did_ decide to return.

What Hannibal did wasn’t a random act of violence. It was sabotage. He’d be lucky if his leg healed in a couple of _weeks_ , let alone a couple of days. If he was going to be forced out of Chase’s life, he wasn’t about to go without taking something from him.

If he ever saw that asshole again, Chase might actually kill him.

 

* * *

 

 

“You’re not serious.”

“I am.”

Wuya gave him a puzzled look from the edge of the bed. Chase stood above her, splint-less and arms crossed, reaching for nothing to keep him supported. He didn’t _need_ support. He was _fine_.

“Did he hit your _head_ , too? You can’t compete!”

“Why do you care?” He asked.

“Never said I did, dear. I’m just stating a fact. Trust me, I’d be _very_ amused by the sight of the _amazing_ Chase Young taking a fall – on national television. ..I just didn’t take you for an idiot.”

“I’ve skated injured before. I can hardly feel it now.” However, he didn’t delude himself into thinking it was because he was healed. Barely sleeping and periodically popping Tylenol and Codeine likely had more to do with it – he felt like he was on the fucking moon.

“Chase. You’re not in a good state of mind. It’s okay to miss this one out.”

“That’s exactly what he wants.”

Wuya stood, hands raised in defeat. He wasn’t going to be talked out of it.

“Well, Chase, I’ll be sure to attend your funeral.” 

 

* * *

 

 

The day of the competition was shrouded in fog. Chase was on autopilot, knowing he went to the gym and then to the arena, but scarcely recalled any of it. He practiced as he usually would, pain shooting up his leg each time he put any pressure on it. It didn’t matter, he hadn’t fallen.

As his turn to skate steadily approached, reality started to set in. His leg ached terribly, and the pills were only doing so much. He applied ice whenever he could, even if it meant other competitors noticed. Some actually bothered to ask if he was okay. No doubt they noticed the absence of Hannibal as well.

He couldn’t shake the image of a child left unsupervised. Without his coach, he felt his situation mirrored that, in a way.

At some point, a younger girl from Vietnam offered to cover his bruises with her foundation, noting their similar skin tone. He let her, having forgotten all about it. He found it strange that she approached him at all - that virtually never happened, when his coach stood beside him. 

5 hours became 4, then 3. The throbbing didn’t dull. He took more. By the 15 minute mark, Chase was too numb to panic like he ought to.

All he had to do was skate for 4 minutes. 240 seconds. Skating was second nature to him. He practiced his routines diligently, and didn’t falter. He could push through this.

“Young.”

His turn.

He finished tying his laces and left the bench. The announcers spoke overhead, but it all sounded like nonsense to him. After taking a drink of water and removing his guards, Chase propelled himself out in the open. The lights were blinding. The melody – _Ambush From Ten Sides_ – truly was like an assault on his ears.

Chase willed himself into action. First was a single axel. He glided forward, putting weight on his left leg, then launched himself upward. He landed on the right leg, and just barely suppressed a groan. He had several more jumps to go. 

Double toe-loop, Salchow, triple Lutz, double axel. It was almost over. He could tell the crowd was cheering, though they sounded so far away.

As the music became more erratic, Chase readied himself for the quadruple jump, not giving himself a chance to reconsider it. He positioned his left foot so he could take off from the back outside edge of his skate. He inhaled sharply, then jumped, spinning counter-clockwise.

His right leg landed, followed by the harsh, unmistakable sound of his bone snapping. He fell onto his side, head smacking against the ice. Things went black, for an instant. When he opened his eyes again, it was as if he were still spinning in midair. 

.. _Shit_.

He attempted to sit up, but someone out of his line of sight told him to stay where he was. From a glance downward, it appeared that his leg was completely deformed – yet, his head was what bothered him more.

It was when he was assisted off of the ice and into the hands of the paramedics that the pain from the break overtook him.

 

* * *

 

Chase flipped through channels for the sake of it, not settling on anything. He fixated on every detail in the room but his leg, which was propped up and hidden under a cast. He caused enough damage to himself that they had to insert metal rods to keep his bone in place.

On top of his tibia snapping like a twig, he sustained a mild concussion. He was still disoriented from it, but not so terribly that he hadn’t processed what happened.

His stubbornness led him to behave stupidly, and it did far more than cost him the gold. He was facing several months dedicated to recovery – in more ways than one.

Hannibal probably laughed his ass off, wherever he was.

If only there was life support he could pull - although, he didn't want _this_ to be the hill he died on. He couldn't allow his reputation to be forever tarnished by this event, nor could he pass before making sure Hannibal suffered dearly. 

“Don’t make me say that I told you so,” a voice came from the doorway. Wuya let herself in, wearing a smirk that didn’t quite meet her eyes. “How are you feeling?”

“Like shit.” Like an _idiot_ , but he wasn’t about to give her that piece of information. She likely already knew. “And what makes you think you’re welcome in here?”

“Oh please, you’ve fallen in love with me.” She sat down and crossed her legs, having the audacity to make herself comfortable.

“ _That_ is the _furthest thing_ from the truth. Be gone.”

“Wait,” she held up a finger, then pulled a tan envelope from her purse. “I come bearing gifts. I found this under my door this morning, but it’s addressed to you.”

 _That_ wasn't suspicious at all. Chase took the envelope and examined it. He had a bad feeling, but opened it regardless.

Not a card, only a slip of paper marked with familiar handwriting:

 

          ‘ _Better a limp leg than a limp wrist._ ’

 

“That _fucking_ – “

He began to tear at it, but Wuya grabbed the paper from him before he got very far. Her face fell, upon reading the message herself.

“Oh.”

“If you’re not going to dispose of it, hand it back to me and I'll do it myself.” Chase said, seething. She wordlessly continued what he started, ripping until it was reduced to nothing more than tiny scraps. With a wave of her hand, the remains fell into the trash, mimicking snow.

It was uncomfortably silent for a few minutes. Wuya opened her mouth only to shut it, multiple times. Finally, words actually came out. 

“..I have a question.”

“I don’t know. That’s the answer.” At least, that was the only answer he’d willingly give her. He wasn’t about to elaborate on the matter – his sexuality or lack thereof was hardly something he wanted to discuss. With _anyone_.

“Knock knock,” a nurse tapped on the door frame, dawning a friendly smile. “Sorry to interrupt – someone had this sent for you.” She held up a vase containing a red rose, with a card tied to it by a ribbon.

Hastily, she set it on the bedside table and excused herself. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to read anything else sent his way, even if the sender felt compelled to include a flower.

Wuya, as nosy as she was, untied the card and read the name on the back.

“Who’s Jack?”

Chase yanked it away in an instant and opened the envelope, shielding it from her view.

 

            _‘I’m sorry about what happened – I hope you feel better soon!! <3’_

_\- Jack Spicer_

Well - that was a surprise. He couldn't help but smile a little. Spicer must’ve watched the scene unfold when it was airing – or perhaps he caught wind of it from elsewhere. Surely it was being talked about. The thought made him a bit nauseated.

“Who’s Jack?” Wuya repeated, once again invading his personal space by leaning over him to catch a glimpse at the card. He swatted her away.

“Just some boy from Chicago, it’s not that fascinating, I assure you.”

“A boy who sent you a rose.” Wuya pointed out, grinning as if she was aware of something. She had it completely wrong. 

“Is that not customary? I’m in a hospital.“

“Oh, it’s customary, in a variety of ways.” She raised her eyebrows. For fucksake.

“You’re tiring me, get out.” He meant it wholeheartedly, this time. “If you receive anything else meant for me, burn it.”

Wuya scoffed. “Fine. I don’t suppose you want to do away with _Jack’s_ little love note, too.”

“It’s not a _love note_ , Wuya. But no, I intend on keeping it.” Merely because it was genuinely kind, and welcomed after dealing with so much ugliness. That, and he didn't expect to hear anything from Jack Spicer again. It sparked his curiosity, slightly. There was nothing more to it.

Once Wuya left him, he twirled the rose around with his fingers. The color reminded him of Jack’s hair and eyes – stark red. He wondered if that came to mind when it was picked out. What else was on Jack's mind? Was this a continuation of Jack’s little crush or simply a thoughtful gesture?

Regardless, he planned on preserving the rose, and taking it with him. Where he was going, now that his ties were severed from Hannibal, Chase had no idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I listened to "Lucky" by Britney Spears a LOT while writing this.. ("the world is spinning, and he keeps on winning. But tell me, what happens when it stops"). While Yuri! On Ice didn't exactly inspire me, admittedly I, Tonya did a bit. 
> 
> The next chapter will have more Jack, I promise.
> 
> Just trying to write Hannibal as an ex-figure skater calls for the suspension of disbelief, it was a struggle. 
> 
> Also, while I like Wuya being an antagonistic bitch as a trope in Chack fics at times, my heart longs for some weird friendship between Chase and her. Which will still be antagonistic, let's not be mistaken, but a friendship nonetheless. In this chapter, Chase is still 20, Wuya is 24 - Hannibal is... in his mid-40s?
> 
> ( Here's what I picture with Wuya's figure skating - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zmxROknThQM )

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote the ending to this whole story already. I planned on it being a one-shot only, but then I asked myself too many questions. My life is too chaotic for this yet here I am.


End file.
